The Fictional Diaries or My Life in La-La Land

Later

Maybe I should explain everything. You know, for you MILLIONS OF READERS OUT THERE JUST DYING TO HEAR MORE SECRETS FROM THAT FREAK MIA THERMOPOLIS BECAUSE WE JUST ALL WISH WE COULD LIVE HER LIFE, DON'T WE?  I'm kind of flattered that millions of people actually care whether or not new tragedies unfold each day of my existence, but really, haven't you learned to expect it now? I'm a fictional character. My life is supposed to suck.

NO, no it's NOT. I'm supposed to be the brave, risky one who solves murder mysteries and makes wild, passionate love to a different guy every day, or at least the confident, self-assured cheerleader whose worst moment is finding out her airhead boyfriend is cheating on her (easy—dump him and find a cuter guy). I'm not supposed to have braces and big hair and monster feet and glasses whose friends are more kick-ass than she is and who pines for the guy of her dreams—a member of the computer club—every day of her life! The gutsiest thing I've ever done is throwing an eggplant out the sixteenth-story window of my best friends apartment!

Of all the moments I've wanted to cry in my life, this is without a doubt the worst.

So what happens now?

Do I just...stay sixteen forever? Go through trauma after trauma (you readers creep me out if you enjoy watching Grandmere bully me) as if each time I can just spring back without a scratch? Watch Michael find some smart, pretty girl and spend the rest of his house in a house with a white picket fence, 2.5 kids, a dog named Spot, and his name on the plate of some CEO's office? Or go on wishing that he didn't see me as his little sister's best friend for the rest of my life? How long will that last, anyway? Until Meg Cabot decides she's BORED and throws the Princess Diaries in the TRASH? No longer do I have control over my life. I can't decide how I grow up and who if I marry and when I die and—and—GOD.

Well, I guess I have control over my life now. As much control as I can have surrounded by a bunch of listless people fictional characters I USED to know. Safe until Meg Cabot writes her third book, and then we'll see how things turn out.

Later

Oh. Yeah. Right. I was supposed to explain everything to you. You know, I didn't have to EXPLAIN anything to my diary before, because nobody ever READ IT before. But I suppose it's my duty as a BEST-SELLING BOOK to fill you up on previous events.

Went to the bookstore.

Picked a book off the shelves.

Surprise surprise. It's my diary.

Now I know I'm a fictional character.

The world freezes in mid-breath around me.

Alone.

Period.

That's the story, I guess.

I've told you (you? weird.) about my theory, right? That my guess was that while Meg Cabot writes a book, her fictional world sort of freezes up. But now that I've discovered the truth (or is it? what IS the truth now, anyway?) the order has been thrown off and I'm awake. Awake in La-La Land with nobody to talk to, nothing to do. Except write. Surf the Internet. Campaign for Greenpeace. Get fat.

Just because there's nobody around to be embarrassed in front of doesn't mean I'm going to forego my strict eating habits.

I resolve not to have a single ham sandwich during my exile from daily life in Greenwich Village (a/n: that was for you, Me.) Who would want to, anyway? Ham=Pig=Slaughtered Animal.

I understand *some* math, Mr. Gianini.

Still Later

Still here. Still bored. Surfing fanfiction. Still very embarassing. Waiting for Anne of Green Gables to come skipping through or something. Yeah. I figure it might happen. Why not?

(A/N: Yes, Me, that last part took quite a bit of effort. My finger aches just typing it out. And, Rachael, if you're out there—do you think that there's dead pine in Heaven?...*dreamy faraway gaze on face*...Hey...don't you usually ask me that?...*shrugs*...*leaves to ponder Mia Thermopolis' terrible fate some more*...*I'm just as bad as Meg Cabot, aren't I?*...

Also, I realize that these first few chapters have been pretty tame. Just stuff that's mostly been mentioned in the book, skirted around a bit to stick to the main topic. I'm just afraid of writing something different b/c I don't know how well I can do it. I want to make this a story—a real STORY—but I'm not sure how to do it. I'm thinking that having an actual (er, you know what I mean) fictional character come in—someone to talk to Mia, or to vie for her love, or to make fun of her, or just to fill her up on how things are being a Nonexistent person—might be good for the story. Or maybe Mia meets Meg Cabot, talks to her, rants, raves, etc, and discovers she's not so bad after all (or, horror or horrors, she's what Mia grows up to be—what ever happened to the righteous, free-speaking environmental radical she was determined to be?). Or maybe she just sits a while and reflects over her life, her relationship with Michael, the web she's caught up in with Kenny Showalter, the Biology Kid-and-that's-all-he'll-ever-be-to-her, her unrealized self-actualization, and her new stepdad. Or maybe she can just graffiti the school and wait until the third book swings into full operation in her life and whistle innocently while Principal Gupta puzzles over who could have vandalized the school without a trace.

Yeah. That would make for a profound story, if you ask me.

A VERY profound story.

-Amara, the Author of Fickleness.

(P.S.—I had so much trouble with my computer's spell check and this story. It has so many no-goes in it that practically every other word is—my earnest computer informs me—a run-on sentence or a fragment or an impossible spelling or a non-English word (well, I didn't get too many of those).)